


If we hit on troubled water (I’ll be the one to keep you warm and save)

by Iceprinzess



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Blakefield is endgame, College, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Reincarnation AU, World War I, World War II, includes pretentious song title, they are dying but I promise a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iceprinzess/pseuds/Iceprinzess
Summary: His wife gets a piece of metal on a ribbon and can never say she is a widow without tears in her eyes.Next time, they are, ironically, on the other side.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Blake/Lance Corporal Schofield, Thomas Blake/William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	If we hit on troubled water (I’ll be the one to keep you warm and save)

**Author's Note:**

> First about the names: converting William Schofield into a german name was pretty easy, Thomas Blake was a bit harder for me. While Thomas is a German name, too, it was not that popular in 1924 (which I made Toms second birth year). I once read a tumblr post about how the name Thomas Blake is common in England, especially the first name Thomas. One calls english soldiers Tommy Atkins, sooo… I decided to also go with a generic german name and Fritz was a really common first name (the most popular 1924 was Hans but I don’t like that name so I decided against it). Even if it is not mentioned in the story, his last name would be Müller, which is probably THE surname in Germany, meaning miller, because a lot of people were millers. 
> 
> Title taken from the song Brother by Kodaline
> 
> English is not my mother tongue, I am thankful for criticism. This is the first time I'm writing a fanfiction in English and this tells you everything you need to know about my obsession with 1917.

It’s three days later when he finally lets a doctor check the wound on his hand. But then again, let is maybe the wrong verb. He knows the wound is infected (feels warm, funky smell, hurts like hell), but he had ignored it, got a fever from it and collapsed in the trenches, so there is that.  
He knows the look in the doctors eyes, has seen it often concerning other men. He knows he will die. Maybe it’s for the best. 

‚Come back to us‘ says the picture of his wife and his girls but he could never truly come back. A part of him died with Tom on that god forsaken farm. You can come home from war, he thinks, but you can’t come back.  
He loves his girls, wants to see them grow old and tall, wants to see them smile and be happy, wants to hold his grandchild in his arms. He wants to love his wife, spend his life with her and make her happy. He feels like a failure because he can’t. 

It’s the war, it destroys everything. It is horror and fear and death and mud and rain and cold and food, that tastes like it was dragged halfway through no mans land, and uncomfortable cots and stale bread and waiting and dying. It’s standing in the trenches with rain water and mud up to your knees, it’s waiting for the chlorine gas to creep over the edge of the trench and sinking to the ground, choking you, it’s seeing soldiers run just on stumps and adrenaline because their feet were ripped of by a grenade, it’s hearing a soldier scream for his mother out in no mans land for days and being relieved when he is finally, finally silent. 

Well, this day is as good as any other to die. 1600 lives against two, that’s a fair deal, he guesses. He was drafted 1914, meaning it’s been three years and he only got some scratches here and there. Something major had to happen soon anyway.  
He breathes, feels the air fill his lungs. It reeks like iodine, sweat and death. He thinks of Blake and how he smelled good, always good, he thinks, soft and like laughter and sunlight. He thinks of his smile and his stories and his compassion.  
Schofield breaths and thinks of Blake. 

His wife gets a piece of metal on a ribbon and can never say she is a widow without tears in her eyes. 

Next time, they are, ironically, on the other side. 

There are no words to describe the cold. It could be minus 30 degrees, or minus 40, at this point, ten degrees more or less are nothing. He saw men, who froze to death in their sleep, he’s seen men freezing to death while sitting awake and just never getting up again. The bodies don’t rot, it’s too cold for that. 

They are stuck in Stalingrad* for over two months now. Hope, that another part of the army comes to save them, is long gone. Now it’s dying or war captivity in Russia.  
Wilhelm Schofeld, Gefreiter* of the 6. Armee of the Wehrmacht* reaches for the pocket in his uniform, it’s a summer uniform because this campaign is a joke to the OHL* and nobody thought they would be here when winter came. 

It was supposed to be fast and easy. Like Poland, like Norway, like France, Russia was supposed to fall in a couple of months tops. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. A retreat would have been the logical way out, at some point in autumn, when it became clear, that the oh so great German army had not enough fuel to maintain their vessels. Then the streets became too muddy and after that the snow was too high. But nothing about Hitlers* decisions is logical. 

When there was something to vote on still, and not only one party, Wilhelm voted SPD*. He didn’t want the NSDAP* to run his country. 

But it’s his country nevertheless. It’s his family’s life that’s on stake if this war goes to shit. So he will fight. He fights. He shot innocent people, he stole dead peoples clothes to keep warm, he said nothing when they flogged the Jews and the Russian civilians together to dig their own graves and then shot them or hanged them. 

Now he will freeze to death or be killed by the Red Army for his country, for a war he did not want and an ideology he does not believe in. Yet here he is. 

Just his luck. 

His fingers are cold but they still move. He has seen men taking their gloves off and their fingers gone. In his pocket is a picture of his wife and his son and his daughter. Wilhelm hasn’t seen them for over a year. He will never see them again. 

„Kommissbrot*, but better than nothing.“ A piece of bread floats into his vision.  
Fritz flops on the ground next to him. They found shelter in one of the abandoned houses. At this point the city is lifeless, the only people left are German soldiers and the Russians creeping closer and closer each day. No building has windows anymore. They are all shot. There is noting left to burn against the cold. Wind blows through the holes that were once windows and the ones made from Russian artillery. 

„We are going to freeze to death in this cold.“ Fritz says but it doesn’t sound like a realization. More like something you would say on a walk on Christmas Eve from Church on your way home, knowing there is a fire in the fire place and a warm meal on the table.  
Fritz is the only thing that makes this place bearable. Wilhelm knows he would have shot himself already, like a coward, if it wouldn’t be for Fritz. 

Fritz is ten years younger than him, barely 20. He has bright blue eyes and dirty blond locks. He does not belong admits war and peril. He belongs on a beach at the Baltic Sea, warm wind blowing through his hair and salt water clinging to his eyelashes. He belongs on silk sheets, belongs in a garden full of cherry blossoms. 

Somehow Fritz seems unaffected by all this gore around him. His eyes are sparkling when he looks at Wilhelm, he smiles, he looks alive. Which is more than Wilhelm does, who rarely smiles and who must look like death warmed up at this point. 

First time he saw Fritz, he knew. He didn’t know something was missing but in that moment on the train station in Once Poland, now Germany, his soul recognized a friend. It was like oh. It’s you. It’s always been you, there you are. I’ve missed you. 

He would do anything to not let him die this time. Wilhelm gives Fritz his rations, so he doesn’t go hungry, he lets him sleep a little longer, he always goes first. Fritz will not be touched by the terrible horror around them, not if Wilhelm has a say in this. 

He has no say in it. 

On Fritz' hands is blood. Wilhelm can’t protect him from seeing their comrades bleed to death in Russian soil, can’t protect him from seeing the burned bodies lying in the villages and the trees with the men and women and children Germany does not consider worth living. Wilhelm would say they have seen worse, but that is not true. Not entirely at least. This time it’s just different from the first Great War. He knows Fritz can do it. He did it once.

Wilhelm breathes in the cold air, packs away the picture of his family and takes a small piece of bread that Fritz is offering him. He nibbles on it, thinking about how they need to save something for tomorrow. 

„You should sleep a bit.“ Fritz says.  
„I’m fine.“  
Fritz scrunches his face up. „You don’t look fine. I can watch out if anything changes.“  
Meaning if the Russians are coming closer. Two days ago they tried taking this street corner. Didn’t succeed.

Now Wilhelm has two shots left in his gun, the rest of his munition is gone. There is no back up. They can’t go to their commander, because first, he died a week ago and second, part of the reason they are stuck here is the fact that they have nearly nothing on artillery, munitions and fuel left. They have one tank left that has a working motor yet, but they don’t have fuel to actually use it. 

The Russians didn’t move much today, so maybe, Wilhelm thinks, he can risk closing his eyes for a minute. 

Pulling this rag that calls himself coat tighter around himself, he lets his head fall on Fritz’ shoulder. It’s not warm but warmer than the cold air and it’s comfortable and he always liked touching Fritz. A gloved hand slips into his own and Wilhelm squeezes it and smiles. 

„When we get home, we are going somewhere warm, yeah?“ Fritz whispers. „Where the sun shines and birds sing. Maybe we can go to the sea, just lie in the sand. They could have send us to France, but no. Had to be the coldest fucking place on earth. Or we could-„

We wont go home, Wilhelm thinks, he does not tell Fritz and next thing he knows, he is asleep. 

Fritz’ eyes snap open. He fell asleep. Wilhelm will scold him for falling asleep while on guard duty. Wilhelm usually doesn’t go to sleep first and Fritz has the feeling, Wilhelms guard hours are longer than his but every time he asks Wilhelm denies it. Now he will sleep even less, Fritz fears.  
Wilhelm is still asleep next to him which is unusual.

„Wilhelm.“ Fritz says tiredly and moves. They have to get up or they will get too cold.  
Wilhelm does not move.

„Wilhelm!“ Fritz says again, louder, and bumps his hand into Wilhelms chest. Wilhelm does not move. He is a light sleeper. 

„Wilhelm?“ panic starts to settle in. He scrambles to his knees in front of Wilhelm.  
„Wilhelm?“ he has both hands on Wilhelms shoulders now, shaking him. „Wilhelm!“  
„No, nononononono! Wilhelm.“ 

His hands are shaking while he slaps Wilhelm on his face, trying to wake him up. „Don’t die.“  
He feels the tears coming to his eyes, he is breathing too fast, can hear himself breath, its too loud. He is the only one breathing in their little corner, they are alone, he is alone, because Wilhelm died and left him, he can’t be dead. 

„Wilhelm!“ he chokes. The other men is not breathing. His lips are blue. His cheeks are pale. He is cold. 

He is dead. 

His fists are cramped in Wilhelms uniform jacket. He lets his forehead rest on Wilhelms left shoulder and blinks away the tears. They will freeze on his cheeks and thats dangerous.  
Fritz looks at Wilhelms face and brushes a thumb over his cheekbone. He tries to say something but he is not sure what he wants to say and all that comes out is a choked sob.  
He breathes deeply, pulls his shoulders back, takes Wilhelms gun and his gloves and gets up. 

Next day, he is two streets south, three other German soldiers are with him. They are cowering behind a wall in the desperate attempt to find cover from heavy artillery fire. It’s not working. 

„We have to get to the other side, there is a camp three corners west, we can do that.“ One of the others says. Fritz does not know his name. 

„We will never get across the street.“ A second men argues. 

He is right. They are four, with limited bullets and the Russians have at least three machine guns with them. Fritz counts. He has two shots from Wilhelm, he himself has ten left. If the others are quick and his aim is straight, it could be enough. 

„I’ll give you cover.“  
They look at him like he’s gone mad. Fritz doesn’t care.  
„You sure?“  
„Yeah.“  
„Thank you.“ One of them says. Fritz nods.  
„On my mark.“ He says. „One - two - three.“ 

They sprint across the street, he shoots. His aim is good, the Russians going for cover, but he has only twelve shots. He glances to his side, the others need a head start. He shoots, moves closer to the right edge of the wall, shoots, looks around the wall, the Russians are scrambling back to their weapons. One of them sees him peaking behind the wall, Fritz sees him shout something, the others look at him, he is the one shooting, he is most dangerous right now and they have to eliminate him. He shoots. It’s his last bullet but he has to keep them occupied. He closes his eyes for a second, imagines Wilhelms smile and starts running towards the Russian emplacement. He does not have time to feel the bullets hitting him. 

Wilhelms wife gets nothing. The letter saying her husband is considered missing at the front never reaches her. She is on the run with two small children. Fleeing from the Red Army from Silesia* to nowhere, just far far away.  
Fritz’ parents get a letter, saying their son died for Führer, Volk und Vaterland*.

Will wakes up with his heart hammering in his chest. He can’t remember the dream, the only thing that lingers is a bad feeling and a foul taste in his mouth. In the last couple of weeks this feeling happens a lot. It’s probably not normal but he is a college student, if he’s a bit on the depressed side of life that’s something he can live with. 

He grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks the time. His alarm will ring in 23 minutes so he can stay awake, lie in bed and check Instagram.  
Or, he could get up, Will muses. He makes an unwilling noise but you know what, the sun is already up, he can hear the birds singing, maybe he will be a motivated person for once. Get up early, eat a healthy breakfast and go for a quick walk before class. 

Will can’t believe he is doing this while he sips on his green smoothie which he picked up from the store around the corner of his building. It does not taste as bad as the color suggests. He sits on a bench in a park on campus, near the building where his morning lecture is and lets the spring sun shine on his face. It’s gorgeous and maybe he should do this more often. He takes his notes out of his bag and skips over them. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared. His professor is a bit too interested in the idea of letting everyone participate. It’s part of the final grade, so he should do something about it. 

It’s not that the seminar is not interesting. It is. Well, it’s as good as it gets. Will is more of a Middle Ages guy, Modern Age is not really his thing. But he has to do a modern age lecture to get his degree. This world war one thing was the only course that sounded remotely interesting in the online description. He is definitely not going to a lecture about American foreign policy in the second half of the 20th century. 

But the thing is, most lectures sound interesting and when you are there they are not. That is not the case here. The have good discussions going. Something about the topic makes Will feel uneasy but he can’t put a finger on it. 

Today they will be talking about the Battle of the Somme and the professor assigned them an article to read as homework. It has an underlying tone about how brave the soldiers where and how enthusiastic they died for their country. That kinda rubs Will the wrong way. He only skimmed it, so he should got over it again. 

But he does not want to. His bench is under a nice birch tree in a quieter corner of the park. The birds are chirping, the sun is filtering through the young green leaves and a cherry tree, which was gifted by a Japanese partner university, is in full bloom. The air smells like damp soil and fresh green. The sun is already warm and the sky is blue. He can see no one else around and thats just how he likes it.  
It really is a really nice day. 

He takes another sip of his smoothie and feels healthy because he is eating - does it count as eating if it’s a smoothie?- something green. He looks at his phone. One new message from his sister, who send him a picture of her cat trying to steal her daughters breakfast. He smiles and types a quick reply, a laughing smily, but he genuinely laughs at his phone. That’s why he missed someone coming near. 

„S’xcuse me. Is this seat-?“ 

Will looks up startled and stops. He looks different but Will would recognize him anywhere. His eyes are light, the hair is darker, the face is soft, he is tall. It’s him.  
Will remembers the dreams and now he definitely knows what’s up with the World War I lecture.  
„Oh.“ The other guy says. He is blinking really fast. 

He knows me, Will realizes, he knows me like I know him. 

„That sounds probably really stupid but -„  
„No!“ Will nearly shouts it. He can feel his cheeks getting hot.  
A smile, a bright smile and so beautiful that Will can’t take his eyes off it.  
„I’m Tom.“  
„I’m Will.“  
Tom extends his hand and Will takes it. He smiles at Tom. Tom sits down next to him. They are holding hands and start to talk. Will misses his lecture today. 

It’s morning again. Will has slept better than he has slept in weeks. No, scratch that, he never slept that good.  
The bed is warm and the mattress is soft underneath him. Tom is a solid weight on his side, warm and comforting. Will breathes, deep, and smells Toms perfect smell, like cherry blossom and green apples.  
„It’s a new shampoo I’m trying out.“ Tom told him when he mentioned it. Will loves it. „I will keep it then.“ Tom grinned. 

„Mornin’.“ Tom mumbles into his chest. Will hugs him tighter and kisses his hair. He can feel Tom smiling against his skin. His heart flutters and there are butterflies in his stomach.  
„Morning.“  
„I don’t want to get up.“ Tom snuggles deeper into the embrace.  
„Then don’t.“ Will suggestst.  
Tom hums, the tone vibrating in the quiet room. He pulls the blanket over his shoulder.  
„You cold?“  
„No, just getting comfy.“  
„Good.“  
The just lie there, listen to the other breathing, feeling the sleep warm skin, hands caressing each other. 

„Do you have plans for the day?“  
„Well, since yesterday they involve staying in bed with a handsome guy.“  
He can see that Tom can’t suppress the grin that is forming on his face, even when he bites his lip. This makes his heart flutter again. He feels light.  
„That’s a good plan. Maybe i’ll copy it.“  
Tom gets up on his elbow, one hand on Will’s chest. „I never knew I waited for you.“  
„I didn’t know either.“  
„I didn’t want to go out yesterday morning, you know. I just walked and there were you and I -„  
Will kisses him.  
He leans up, props himself up on his left elbow, cups Tom’s face in his right hand and kisses him. Tom makes the cutest sound. Will feels like his heart will burst out of his chest. 

Toms lips are warm and real and bright. The kiss is holy.

**Author's Note:**

> *Stalingrad: Probably the biggest catastrophe in German military history. In Winter 1942/43 the 6th Army is surrounded by Russians in the city of Stalingrad, they are not allowed to break out and suffer high casualties. They surrender in February 1943. This defeat is considered the turning point of World War II. 
> 
> *Gefreiter: an officer in the german army at this time. 
> 
> *Wehrmacht: lit. defense power, name of the German Land forces (in contrast to Luftwaffe (air force) and Kriegsmarine (navy))
> 
> *OHL = Oberste Heeresleitung, high command of the Wehrmacht
> 
> *Hitler: Adolf Hitler, german chancellor, head of the NSDAP; has destroyed democracy and made himself dictator, calls himself Der Führer (The Leader). 
> 
> *SPD = Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands; social democratic party of Germany, not as left as the communists, more in the middle of the political spectrum.  
> *NSDAP = Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (national social german worker party), neither social nor for workers, on the far right of the political spectrum, at this point the only party that’s not illegal, wants to Make Germany Great Again. 
> 
> *Kommissbrot = coarse rye bread in rectangular shape; pan loaf
> 
> *Führer, Volk und Vaterland: leader (meaning Hitler), people and fatherland; official motivation for soldiers in World War II. 
> 
> *Silesia (Schlesien): at this time part of Germany, today part of Poland.


End file.
